


Marked

by existentialcrisis



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Canon, Character Development, Dalish, F/M, POV Solas, Stream of Consciousness, Trespasser Spoilers, cause i haven't written in years, i dont speak elvish, this is me just practicing my writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 22:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4894693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/existentialcrisis/pseuds/existentialcrisis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Solas deals with an energetic Inquisitor, comes to terms with this new world, and faces his inner demons (so to speak).</p><p>Chronological snippets of what was running through the Dread Wolf's head throughout Inquisition. Mainly focuses on his evolving opinion of the young Inquisitor Lavellan. Very stream of consciousness, stylistic writing difference throughout the chapters.<br/>Additionally, a character study on the evolution of Lavellan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Why he hated her

**Author's Note:**

> As the notes say, I haven't written in years. And I wanted to. So this happened.
> 
> Elvish comes from different places around the Internet. Next time I'll keep track to give credit where credit is due.

               When she stood in front of him, all brimming energy and good intentions, Solas didn’t see the inspirational figure the masses claimed her to be. All he saw was a child. Practically an infant, if he was being honest. It wasn’t just the millennia separating them and their cultures either. Like a baby, she seemed prone to emotional outbursts (stomping her foot upon the ground when frustrated, her face scrunched and red in anger), spit up her dinner (Varric seemed to find a drunken Herald simply hilarious), and clambered clumsily over anything in her path (“What’re you doing!?” “Just hold still, Solas! If I get on your shoulders I can probably see over this ridge!”).

               Technically everyone seemed naïve to him—even Cassandra with her faith and her scowls, Cullen with his vigilance, Leliana with the weight of her secrets. But she was the worst.

               And she was just so… _Dalish._

               Always going on about her clan this, their halla that. It was enough to drive him mad ( _what’s he doing, letting a child—da’len—get underneath his skin so easily)_. He knew his resentment towards the wild elven clans was a bit unfair, but discovering the Dalish had been a bit of a shock. He’d just woken from his sleep, as weak and naked as the baby he tended to compare the Herald to but for a blackened wolf jaw clenched in his hand ( _bald like a baby too, where did my hair go?)_. Instantly, the horror of what he had done hit him. He could feel the barrier he set up ( _the Veil, everyone here calls it the Veil_ ) and the world was changed ( _both worlds were changed. What once had been one, sundered. What once had been at peace, at war)._

               At nights, when he slept, he walked his new Fade (as he would soon learn the humans called it). Spirits gathered close, and several called out to him in this corrupted Beyond (as he would soon learn the elves called it). “Fen’Harel! You return!” shouted a spirit of valor he’d met long after he was no longer Solas, during the time they called him Dread Wolf.  “Solas, _da’len_ ,” lamented a spirit of wisdom he had known since before that time, when they still called him Solas. That was when he had decided they would call him Solas again. He’d gathered his strength, gathered some clothing, gathered new belongings. And he set out to discover this new ( _horrible_ ) world he had created. He’d stumbled upon a Dalish clan almost immediately. “ _Andaran atish’an_ ,” Solas had greeted, a bolt of relief shooting through him at the sight of his People. The elf had greeted Solas in kind, but then had switched to a new, modern language. Solas—switching back to this new old name, not even realizing giving the other to this elf could have ended his life—didn’t understand. He’d had to quickly, subtly cast a spell that essentially translated between languages (the vowels and gentle curves of his language giving way to boxy phrases, linear grammar).

               “—dangerous. The shem are getting braver,” the elven man was saying. “What clan are you from?” This language was so clumsy, thick, lacking the beauty, the simplicity, the artistry of elvish.

               “Clan? What do you—” it was then that Solas noticed the aravels. His eyes raked across the campsite, which he had initially taken for a traveling merchant caravan. But no, this was… a village? There were children, halla, wagons full of growing vegetables. Bile choked in the back of his throat. Understanding slammed into him: His People had gone from living in the most beautiful cities the world had ever seen to being nomads.

               “You’re a _flat-ear,_ aren’t you?” the elf’s voice, previously so warm and welcoming, was filled with disgust. Solas’ eyes flickered back to him, away from the camp, and he gasped. He hadn’t noticed the _vallaslin,_ the blood writing, tattooed across the man’s face. Mythal’s sigil! He’d created the Veil, destroyed his world, to avenge her and free his People. Had he failed entirely? “What do you want?”

               “You wear the _vallaslin_ ,” Solas observed softly. The elf’s lip curled in revulsion. “Why would you—”

               “ _We_ are the last true elves,” the elf sneered at the wolf jaw Solas had threaded through with twine and hung about his neck. “I see you fancy yourself a hunter though. You want to live by the _Vir Tanadhal_?”

               Anger bubbled up, but Solas wrestled the Wolf down. He was older, wiser, calmer. Or so he told himself. “Please,” he gritted out through clenched teeth, “I’m traveling from far away. _Very_ far away. I seek knowledge of these lands I walk through. Long have I wandered, alone and afraid. I wish to learn the manner of your life.”

               “You greeted us in elvish. You know more than you say, _alin_ ( _stranger, no, I am no stranger, don’t call me that da’len, please, I am Solas, I am Solas, I am Fen’Harel),_ but we shall humor your curiosity,” a new elf approached, a younger woman wrapped in a light green shawl bearing the _vallaslin_ of Falon’Din. A mage’s staff poked up from behind her left shoulder. “You may go now, Zamrin.” The elven man bristled at being dismissed, but stalked away nonetheless.

               “ _Ma serannas_ ,” Solas thanked her. “Please, who are you?”

               “My name is Adela. I am the First,” she introduced herself.

               “The first of what?” he inquired, trying to polite, startled when instead she laughed at him.

               “How does one come to know so much elvish and yet know nothing of the Dalish, _Hahren_?” she asked him gently. At first Solas was too startled to answer. _So much elvish_? They’d barely spoken a few words and phrases to one another. And thus he came to realize it wasn’t that a new language had simply taken over. Elvish was forgotten. Another realization hit Solas as he stared at this camp, contemplating the loss of his native tongue. Much and more had been forgotten. If he told them now his adopted name, declared himself Fen’Harel right then and there, would they even know that name?

               The irony of his thoughts would not be lost on him later.

               “I am a scholar,” Solas lied hesitantly. “I’ve been reading, trying to learn as much of the language as I can. It is… What I mean to say is, I’ve been reading history as well, and the history is…” Well, what was it? How was he to know? He’d just woken up after who knew how long of deep, magical slumber.

               “It’s sad,” the young First’s eyes held an ancient sorrow. _What have I done?_ Fen’Harel howled within. “But you asked me a question and I have not yet answered. I am First to the Keeper of this clan. Our Keeper is our leader. She protects what little knowledge we have of our great ancient empire just as she protects the members of our Clan. I am her apprentice.

               “We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit.”

               A poignant silence fell between the two elves as Solas marveled in her words and the First seemed embarrassed at her emotional recitation of the Dalish motto. “By the Dread Wolf, you probably would rather talk to the Keeper than me, yes?” Adela asked. Solas started in surprise.

               “The Dread Wolf?” he asked, a flicker of hope thrumming through his chest. _They remember…_

               Adela’s face darkened. “Fen’Harel,” she practically whispered. Solas, too overwhelmed with joy to notice the First’s mood shift, quivered in excitement.

               “Yes, the Wolf, please, tell me,” Solas begged. And tell him she had. She told him in a voice like poison about the Trickster, the Betrayer, the Wolf. He had turned his back on the People, the Creators, laughed with mad laughter as chaos descended upon the world. He hated the People. He hated the Creators (and wasn’t this truly the delicious part? Ancient slavers remembered as gods while ancient liberators hated and feared in modern times?).

               “We have this little superstition,” Adela admitted, turning to point towards a small statue at the edge of camp. “We always face him away from camp so he will not see us.” Solas’ grief moved slow inside of him, but he felt it moving, and it changed him. Not long after Adela continued on to explain how the Dalish tried to follow the ancient ways, tried to properly honor the gods ( _the gods, the gods, the Creators, By the Dread Wolf! well the Wolf is really howling now. Isn’t he, Solas?_ ), and tried to avoid interaction with the humans, Solas was chased off.

               Zamrin had gone to their Keeper and they returned with several Dalish hunters. They’d threatened him, told him he wasn’t welcome, shoved him until he fell to their feet. They’d screamed with laughter at that. And so he had thanked Adela for her time (but by now even she was looking at him with angry eyes) and been on his way. That night however, as he walked the Fade, he found the statue of the wolf. Solas crouched down next to it, staring the small stone statue in the eyes. The wind swirled around him, carrying the spirits’ voices on it, but Solas didn’t move. Not until his knees cried out for relief did he finally stand, brushing his fingers lightly against the rough stone of the wolf’s snout.

               Solas turned and found his oldest friend, the Spirit of Wisdom, approaching him. She took the form of a lovely elven woman, and she spoke to him in gentle elvish, so kind and familiar and full of the feel of home that it made tears spring to his eyes. His friend took him in her arms. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me everything.”

               And so, over time, he came to know. He learned about the oppression of his People, the division between the Dalish and the city elves, the loss of culture and language to the Tevinters and the Exalted March. He hated the Dalish. Hated them for hating him. Hated them for their harsh treatment of him, their harsh treatment of any outsider, even their own kind. He hated them for their pride, their arrogance, their haughtiness. Mostly he hated them for forgetting him.

               He learned other things as well. Mages were trapped in Circles, they called them. Tevinters and Qunari warred in their never-ending battle. The fifth Blight was nearly twenty years past and the damage from it had yet to be restored. Something called a Grey Warden held something called a Ferelden throne. In time, he came to know those words and those histories too. He traveled the Fade, the world, his own mind. He learned all that he could. He watched ancient battles, wandered lonely ravines, sang in elvish until his voice went hoarse.

               And then he had a plan.

               But it had gone so wrong.

               And so now there was a little Dalish girl from a little Dalish clan, her _vallaslin_ still fresh, her Dalish pride written all over her little Dalish face. And this little Dalish girl had another mark, a flickering magical brand on her palm.

Marked once and once again.

He’d caught her one day bragging proudly to Varric about her _vallaslin_. “What exactly is it, Archie?” he’d asked. Lavellan nudged the dwarf with her shoulder in playful retribution for the silly nickname.

“My _vallaslin_ , my blood writing. We tattoo them on our faces when we come of age to show our devotion to the Creators, the elven gods,” the Herald explained. Varric grabbed her chin with one hand, tilting her head from side to side to study Dirthamen’s purple sigil closer. The Herald giggled and her eyes slid up to meet Solas’ gaze as if she had sensed his presence. “ _Aneth ara_ , Solas! Have you learned anything about the _vallaslin_ in the Fade?” She knew his distaste for the Dalish, yet still asked for his opinion, his knowledge. And to use such a friendly greeting, usually reserved for only another Dalish…

His heart clenched painfully.

She obviously didn’t notice, continued beaming up at him with those wide green eyes and purple slave branding. Solas simply shook his head, not trusting himself to speak, and walked away. He pretended to be very interested in gathering the elfroot at the base of a nearby pine. And why shouldn’t he be interested in that? They were running low on the herb anyway.

As he carefully stowed the plant away in his pouch, he almost felt bad for the animosity he had been feeling towards the young elf. Sure, she was exuberant. Sure, she was arrogant. Sure, she was Dalish. But he’d seen deep kindness within her. She had spent hours running around the Hinterlands, trying to subdue the rogue Templars and rebel mages. That had been a logical thing to do, but even when that goal had been accomplished she hadn’t stopped. She’d hunted, foraged, and gathered resources for days afterwards for the refugees when she had every right to instead go back to Haven, congratulate herself on a day well done, and rest.

She was brave too. She would throw herself at a possessed wolf like it was nothing, wrestling it to the ground, unwilling to kill it. That had been quite the image, the Herald straddling a subdued black wolf, insisting they should try to knock it unconscious. “It’s been possessed, it’s just not fair! It doesn’t know what it’s doing,” she had whined, keeping her forearm pressed down on the wolf’s windpipe, limiting its air. Of course, the wolf’s strength had eventually won out and he’d been able to flip the Herald on her back.

The wolf’s teeth snapped centimeters in front of the Herald’s neck as Varric’s crossbow bolt impaled it in the back, Solas’ spell froze it in place, and Lavellan’s knife ripped its throat apart. The elf shoved the corpse off, standing and brushing herself off. “What a shame,” she murmured, casually sending an arrow over Solas’ shoulder into the chest of a wolf that had sprang at him from behind.

The girl was a Ranger, a rarity among the Dalish who insisted the talent wasn’t magic. All Dalish had an intimate connection with the forest and its inhabitants (or so they claimed), but in Solas’ opinions Rangers were the only ones with any proof to back that statement up (perhaps Keepers too, with their forest magic). They could summon certain animals seemingly from out of nowhere, convince them to work alongside them, form a bond with a creature as wild and dangerous as the forest itself. “I can only do wolves and stags,” Lavellan was wont to say, “but there’s a Ranger in my mother’s old clan that can do spiders and bears!”

Kindness and courage didn’t wash away her pigheaded stubbornness though. She was as paranoid about demons as any Templar, seeing blood magic around every corner. She considered city elves beneath her (a fact that would later strain her relationship with a certain friend of Red Jenny). And at least once a week she would insist that the Tevinters and the Exalted March had destroyed her culture, eliminated her People’s immortality, eradicated her language. She liked to curse the Dread Wolf loudly and often. Actually, she just liked to curse loudly and often.

“ _Fenedhis!”_ became her favorite word. Outlaw sneak up on you? Fade Rift release two Greater Terrors? Stub your toe on a rock? _Fenedhis!_

She was ignorant of his scorn for her, despite all this. She’d come sprinting along towards him, typically along the roof of the tavern or the stone wall that wrapped around the buildings, leaping down to the ground in a roll, coming to her feet breathless and wild as the wind. Once she stood and stumbled forward, catching herself with both palms against his chest. She laughed and apologized (with an additional thanks for catching her, “ _Ma serannas!”)_ , oblivious to the way he recoiled from her, his face etched with distaste.

               “Lavellan—”

               “ _Ir abelas, hahren_!” and then she was off, leaving him with flashbacks of Adela and the honorific she’d also given him. Lavellan’s hair streamed out behind her like a dark cape as she leapt and spun off towards the Chantry cathedral the Inquisition had commandeered for planning their efforts against the Breach.

               “I wish to speak with you. A word, Lavellan!” he called after her angrily.

               “ _Mahvir_!”

               Tomorrow! Tomorrow, he scoffed. He shifted to keep his view of her as she skidded to a stop and flung herself into the warmth of the building. Like him, she was barefoot despite the snow. He was about to turn away and go back to his studies ( _a mental map of all the rifts, hoping he might see a pattern, a connection, a hint, where is it, where is the orb?_ ) when the Herald stumbled backwards out of the same doors she had just entered. Her face was full of wonder as dozens of ravens flew out of the Chantry doors, none carrying messages, soaring and swooping just over Lavellan’s head.

               Leliana was shouting her head off, and her agents were swarming about, trying to recover the ravens. Apparently this had been an accidental raven release. The handful of mages currently allied with the Inquisition sprang into action, freezing birds and catching them as they dropped out of the sky or erecting stone walls and corralling ravens back towards the Chantry. Solas watched with mild amusement as they managed to catch nearly all of the ravens, shuttling them into a large cage that had been wheeled out and set up just outside the Chantry doors.

               “Wasn’t that amazing? Did you see them all? They practically blocked out the sun!” Lavellan was shouting, dancing around in the snow, mimicking the ravens.

               “Herald, please be care—”

               There was a stunning crash, a yelp of _Fenedhis!_ , and the ravens swarmed back into the air, free again.

               Solas groaned.


	2. When it changed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What should have been a disaster works perfectly

It didn’t take long for Lavellan to realize Solas knew an extraordinary amount of elvish (“Especially for someone not raised in a Dalish clan!” she added cheerfully, either ignoring or not noticing the annoyance that flashed behind his eyes). The younger elf had taken to lingering near the courtyard he enjoyed, much to his displeasure. She insisted she was mostly just around to help Adan with his potions, but her heart wasn’t really in the lie and so he saw right through it.  


“ _Ma serannas _, Solas,” she chirped happily when he opened doors for her.  
__

“ _Dareth shiral _, Solas,” she announced solemnly as she walked away.  
__

“ _Ir abelas, _Solas,” she stammered after nearly skewering him with an arrow. Varric, of course, roared with laughter, coming over with his stunted dwarf gait to clap the Herald on the back. “It’s not funny, Varric! __Fenedhis __, Solas, I didn’t even see you there!” She came to stand next to him, her hands hovering over him as if to confirm that he had no arrow-holes. He took her wrists (gently, firmly) in his hands and pushed her away.  
__

“It’s alright, _da’len _,” he assured her, hoping she would go away. To his immense surprise, her green eyes started to well with tears. He hadn’t seen her cry since the first day she had woken up, a captive of _shemlen _, a painful mark burning her palm, thousands of innocents dead, her memory gone, a hole in the sky, and demons stalking the land. “_ Atisha, asha_!” he exclaimed, startled and uncomfortable, his tone harsher than he had meant.  
__

Varric cleared his throat, “I don’t need to speak a lick of your language to know what you just said, and that last time I told Isabella ‘calm down, woman’ she threatened to cut off my good bits.” With that, the dwarf scampered off. Lavellan was chewing on the inside of her cheek uncertainly, obviously wavering between continuing to cry or being angry. Solas felt this was an opportune moment to defuse the bomb that was the so-called Herald of Andraste.  


“ _Ir abelas _, Herald,” he said gently, taking back one of the hands he had just tossed away. “I’m sure this is all hard for you. I know your _assan _was an accident. No blood of mine has been spilled at your hand. See, not even a tear in the cloth, _da’len _.” He handed her a corner of his shirt and she ran her fingers lightly over the warm material.  
______

Still looking down at his shirt, she said firmly, “Teach me elvish, Solas.”  


Solas wanted to say no. He wanted to refuse outright with one simple word, turn around and leave without giving any explanation, assert himself in this relationship. He was here to help seal the Breach and close the Rifts and restore order (and fix his mistake and recover his orb and restore the People, but he shoved those thoughts away because sometimes he swore Lavellan could read his mind). He wanted to shut her down, shut down all her attempts at friendship, at camaraderie.  


He also wanted to rant and rave at her, shout in her lovely young tattooed face. He wasn’t here to be at her beck and call, to babysit, or tutor, or coddle her. He wanted to tell her, “I’ll never teach you, or any of your arrogant Dalish clansman, anything that I know.” Part of him wanted to lean in close, put his mouth right against her slanted ear and hiss, “ _Fenedhis lasa _. And maybe I will.” Show her who he was, release the Wolf. Make her deep rooted Dalish fear of Fen’Harel consume her. Tell her what her precious _vallaslin _really were, tell her she had willingly marked herself as a slave. What was the phrase the Dalish adored spouting? We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit. The fucking irony.  
____

A third part of him wanted to laugh right in her face. “You actually think I’ll teach you? You, an ignorant da’len?” Laugh again, laugh some more, laugh until she actually did cry. Solas felt a malice curling deep within him, a hatred not originating with her but with himself, with the Evanuris, the Dalish, all the elves over the millennia since he had entered Uthenera (entered it to SAVE THEM DAMN IT), the humans who oppressed them, and By the Dread Wolf—yes, yes he will say it now, he will, he will—by the Dread Wolf, he hates himself.  


He wanted to do all these things and more, but something in her voice stilled him, stilled the (what could only be called) madness taking hold inside of him. Teach me elvish, Solas. It wasn’t a question or a request. Neither was it a command. The way she had said it. It was fact. It had already happened. Yes, he would teach her because he already had. “ _Ma nuvenin _,” he replied, and the Wolf within him settled.  
__

“Ma serannas,” she finally released her grip on his shirt and met his gaze. There was a quiet moment between them, and then the noble creature that had briefly replaced Levellan vanished and back again was the wild creature of the forest. She spun circles around him. “Oh, Solas I’ve spent my whole life dreaming of learning elvish and learning about our People and here you are! You can teach me everything.”  


He was relieved that the torrent of fury that had been within him previously wasn’t roused again. Instead he felt the familiar, tame, beleaguered annoyance with her. The hopelessness that this was the one who held the power to save them from the Breach. She was leaping across the boulders that were Haven’s natural fortification, probably off to visit Cassandra or pester Cullen with more questions about Templar daily life. The whirlwind that was her had returned and Solas watched without amusement the confused faces of the shemlen who watched their Herald of Andraste leaping about like a savage (he knew what they were thinking, The stories are true, the Dalish are barbaric as their forests).  


Solas knew he would have to handle these language lessons delicately. Surely she would start to wonder how he knew so much of their People’s language and history. Would she piece together that all that he knew couldn’t simply be attributed to walking the Fade each night? He would have to feign ignorance in certain areas to keep her suspicions from being aroused. And what would she do with this knowledge? Was she likely to ever have a chance to run back off to the Dalish to teach them all that she learned? He had tried, several times, after Adela’s clan to make contact with other Dalish clans. He had tried to teach them some of their language, even a few times tried to tell them the entire truth. Explain the slavery dictated by the _Evanuris _, the corruption in Arlathan long before the Tevinter Imperium came around, the truth about the Dread Wolf. Each attempt had been met with hostility. They called him mad, they pointed bows and _Dar’Misaans _at him, they chased him off and wounded him and hunted him.  
____

He doubted he had any reason to fear. What rational person would ever guess his true identity, his true age, his true place in time? He set his worrying on a new path: the madness within him. He had felt it stirring a couple times in the past year, had wanted to rip the throat out of every Dalish and _shem _he had met for a couple months, but the blinding rage that sometimes assaulted him now? It was something he hadn’t felt since long before his _Uthenera _. And strangely, it was both roused and calmed by a little Dalish girl.  
____

He expected her to be a troublesome student, fidgety and quarrelsome. But she possessed an indomitable focus and for the first time he saw her apply it purposefully. She was a quick learner, clever and bright and witty. Finally, Solas felt lasting warmth towards her. She was kind, she was brave. He had known this. But now he added intelligent, dedicated, diligent, curious to his mental list. By some unspoken agreement, they steered away from Elvhenan history and culture for now. That would be a harder, more painful lesson and the Herald seemed to sense it. So instead he taught her phonetics (“Your accent is atrocious,” he teased playfully, and then marveled that he was actually capable of being playful). She hated that, it was boring, it was useless (or so she claimed), but she studied and she practiced and she mastered it with ease. They moved on to numbers, to dates, to basic grammar.  


It became a common sight to see two pointy-eared heads, one bald, one dark-haired, bent over some scrap of parchment or old tome, chattering excitedly in a mongrel language of elvish and the King’s tongue. Soon their conversations moved beyond just language. She peppered him with questions about the Fade and spirits, which he was more than happy to answer. In return, he asked her about her life, suspending his judgements on the Dalish at those times for her sake.  


“You’ve chosen Dirthamen for your _vallaslin _,” he observed late one evening while they were resting by the fire in The Singing Maiden. They’d just returned from the Hinterlands, returning with some of the herds Dennet had promised them. The horses had been beautiful and he was eager to finally ride again. The Herald had not seemed to share his excitement. Solas reached out with his index finger as if to trace the pattern of her blood writing, but stopped with more than a foot of space between them. “Why?”  
__

“Besides being the prettiest?” she teased. He swatted at her jokingly and she dodged it easily. “He’s the god of secrets and knowledge. I’ve always been curious, trying to soak up anything I can learn from anyone. He gave us the gift of knowledge and learning… and what is life without learning?” she asked.  


A surge of affection rushed through him. “Indeed,” he murmured. He felt something in chest (who was he kidding, something? It was awe, he was in awe of this girl right now).  


“Besides, he mastered the ravens Fear and Deceit. Within my own life I seek to be brave and honest. And so I show patronage to Dirthamen, so that I may be cunning, and courageous, and genuine.” She was avoiding his eye. “Would you like to laugh at my silly Dalish superstition now, _hahren _?” she kept her tone light, joking, showing she meant no offense, but he sensed the pain underneath her words.  
__

He responded in kind, playful words that did nothing to mask the hurt. “Not Andruil? You were a Dalish hunter, no?”  


“Not everything is shooting arrows and rearing halla, Solas. I know that,” she said softly, all traces of jesting gone. “Andruil has taught us much. I follow _Vir Tanadahl _as much as the next hunter. Mythal protects us still, I know. Fen’Harel has locked them all away, but nothing stops a mother’s love. Mythal is with me. The others too, Elgar’nan, June, Sylaise, Falon’Din, Ghilan’nain, they’ve done much and more for us. But Dirthamen, or at least what he represents, is more than just the Dalish, Solas. He is what the world should be.”  
__

Silence fell between them. He knew he should say something, reassure her that he didn’t think she was being silly, being an ignorant Dalish, that her thoughts were noble and pure and wise. She had it all wrong, about all of the _Evanuris _. They weren’t looking out for their people, they weren’t educators and protectors and creators. But that didn’t make her thoughts or her feelings any less valuable. He should tell her that if more people thought like her, the world might be even better than the one he had left. He should tell her that she had just spoken the wisest words he had heard since he’d woken up just over a year ago. He should tell her that for the first time he thought the mark had found a worthy bearer. He should tell her that he thought she was amazing.  
__

“Plus it’s the prettiest right?” he said instead, trying to make her smile. Instead, she stared at him, her face clearer than a Tranquil's, before standing and walking out the door into the cold night, leaving him sitting by the fire with the uncomfortable realization that here was Dalish thought in in its pure, intended form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fenedhis lasa - Wolf Take You  
> Assan- arrow  
> Vir Tanadahl- Way of Three Trees  
> Vir Assan, the Way of the Arrow: fly straight and do not waver.  
> Vir Bor'assan, the Way of the Bow: bend but never break.  
> Vir Adahlen, the Way of the Forest: together we are stronger than the one.  
> Ma nuvenin - as you wish  
> Uthenera - the long sleep ancient Elvhen could take and sometimes return from  
> The rest is probably self explanatory
> 
> I like comments.  
> Also formatting is hard. Someone teach me.


	3. How she broke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan is altered.

Chapter 3 – How she broke

               The lively, sharp Lavellan he had finally come to respect and enjoy disappeared soon after. In her place was a wan, nervous child who started at the littlest sound. She returned from Therinfal Redoubt riding double with Cassandra, her arms wrapped tightly around the Seeker’s waist, her face buried in her shoulder. When she slid off the horse to the ground, Solas watched expectantly, waiting for her inevitable burst of raucous energy. Normally she’d return to Haven after a mission and bolt off to debrief Leliana on her trip or to The Singing Maiden to listen to Maryden sing (though since Sera had taken up residence in the tavern the Herald visited noticeably less).

               But now she stood still, her arms hanging limply by her side. Cassandra swung down from the horse, handing the quiet mare off to an Inquisition groom. Lavellan clutched at the human woman’s sleeve and Cassandra wrapped her free arm around the Herald, guiding her towards the Chantry. Solas frowned. She appeared uninjured, as did the companions she had brought with her (Iron Bull was already strutting around, roaring about their victory over _‘Templar jackholes,’_ and Vivienne was walking around with her nose even in higher in the air than usual). Already news had spread back to Skyhold—the Inquisitor had been successful, the Templars had joined the cause as free allies (and oh wasn’t that just a smack in the face to the handful of mages who had pledged themselves to the Inquisition’s cause?). So why did she look as if she had seen a ghost?

               Solas waited the rest of the evening for his (no not his) _da’len_ to come bounding up to him, probably with some new ridiculous anecdote. Their rapidly blossoming friendship had plateaued after their strained discussion about her _vallaslin_ , but the two elves still remained close. He continued to teach her elvish, she continued to perplex him.

When the moon was far above the tree line, Solas could wait no longer. Surely she wasn’t still meeting with her advisors over the events at Therinfal, controversial as her choices may have been. He moved silently through Haven. The town was still alive and bustling despite the late hour, trying to prepare suitable quarters for hundreds of Templars. Blackwall was directing the construction of dozens of temporary shelters, Varric was collecting the accounts of several of the Templar officers from the time of the Circle’s disbanding to the appearance of the Herald, Sera scowling at any Templar who dared get too close. Solas approached the Herald’s hut, removed from the heart of the action, tucked back in a little forgotten corner of the pilgrimage town. As he raised his hand to knock, the door opened.

The man who stood there was practically transparent, his purple lips and the lavender bags under his eyes giving him the impression of sickliness. His face changed into an expression of intense surprise and Solas knew his expression must mirror the strangers. “You’re a spirit?” Solas asked, sensing the aura. The Spirit swallowed heavily, running his eyes over Solas’ face. _You know who I am,_ Solas thought, speaking to the boy-spirit, _please, I ask that you call me Solas._

“She doesn’t know yet, she can’t know, it would change everything. But _she_ changes everything. So subtle, special, sneaking he seeks to shape the world,” the Spirit gasped the words as if they were forced out of him.

“I just came to speak with the Herald for a moment, Spirit,” Solas said, beginning to move past this strange creature, this spirit with a body. As soon as he confirmed the Herald was well, he was certainly something Solas needed to study, an anomaly that might help Solas understand what would happen once he tore the Veil down. The spirit shifted subtly, blocking the doorway. A flicker of disbelief crossed Solas’ face and the spirit grimaced.

“She doesn’t want to see anybody,” the spirit explained apologetically.

“Cole, are you coming back?” a nervous, thin voice called from within the room. The voice couldn’t have been Lavellan’s, it had to be louder, brighter, cockier. The spirit—Cole—glanced between Solas and the hidden Herald. “Please.”

“ _Da’len?_ Are you well? Please, I just want to speak—”

“Go away, Solas!” the strange reedy voice that couldn’t be Lavellan replied. “Cole, please, I—” With that, the door was slammed in the elven apostate’s face. A pit settled in his stomach. Never had he heard such fear or pain in Lavellan’s voice. She was unbreakable. She was the toughest armor and even the biggest boulders the world threw at her were only pebbles in comparison to her mountainous spirit. Solas was about to reach for the door handle and force his way in when an accented voice from behind him ordered firmly—

“Leave her be, Solas.” Cassandra stepped out of the shadows.

“Have you been there the whole time, Seeker?” Solas asked, keeping his voice level.

“I don’t trust this _thing_ , the spirit who calls itself Cole,” Cassandra seethed. A spirit in the body of a man-child, calling itself by a human name, a spirit of compassion if Solas had to guess, and he indeed had a very educated guess, what was it what was he what was happening what was wrong with Lavellan what— “What if it tries to hurt her?”

“I don’t think you need be concerned by that, Seeker,” Solas replied, thinking of the gentle, frolicking spirits of compassion he had met in the Fade. They were soft creatures, flickering and bright, pure joy embodied until corrupted by the mortal world. He imagined Lavellan would love them. “What happened? The Herald seems… distraught.” Cassandra’s face tightened, her scars darkening as her skin pulled taut across her face. For a brief moment, in the flickering torchlight, she looked like nothing but a skull, her hair a dark halo.

“Something happened, Solas. It was in a split second, it looked like nothing to us, but—“ Cassandra cut off suddenly. She swallowed uncomfortably, shifting her weight and seemingly unconsciously reaching for her blade. “An Envy demon… it entered her… I think it tortured her in her own mind.”

Ice water rushed through Solas’ veins. For all his love of spirits, he couldn’t deny that demons existed, as much as he knew that it wasn’t their own fault that they had been corrupted. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Something about an Elder One. Leliana could probably tell you more, it made no sense to me. She hasn’t let go of the spirit since he appeared in the War Room. He _saved_ her,” Cassandra explained. “Whenever he strays more than a foot from her, she gets pale and sweaty and panics. She’s just not… _her_.”

“It may just take some time,” Solas said uncertainly, trying to appear collected. “A traumatic experience like that…” Solas excused himself while Cassandra returned to her silent vigil, moving back towards his quarters with reluctant steps. He reassured himself with the thought that the lively, resilient Herald would quickly bounce back. “Enjoy the peace now, old man,” he told himself. “Soon enough she’ll be back to driving you insane.”

But Lavellan didn’t leave her hut the next day, or the day after. Three times a day Varric or Cassandra would bring food, Solas would spy on them from afar, but Cole always answered the door and accepted the offering. Cassandra appeared to threaten the spirit, Varric seemed to be trying to sweet talk his way in, but nothing worked.

“It’s time to close the Breach,” Cassandra complained to the apostate elf two mornings later as the Templars were training for exactly that. “We’ve recruited the Templars, you’ve researched all you can on the subject, we need to go _now_.” It wasn’t until the day after that, three days after Therinfal, that the Herald emerged from her hut for the first time. Her dark hair fell in a greasy tangle from her scalp. She kept hold of Cole’s hand the entire time, moving silently through the crowd. At first Solas worried what the people would think if they saw their beloved Herald in this state, but for some reason no one seemed to even notice them.

Cole and the Herald slipped into the Chantry and Solas followed quickly behind them. “ _Da’len_ ,” he said, reaching for her shoulder. Lavellan gasped in terror, clinging to Cole’s back. The Spirit threw his arms out wide, blocking her. Solas had seen the younger elf launch herself at pride demons, suicidal mages on fire, angry Druffalo… she was one of the bravest people he had ever met, and here she was cowering like a child behind this stranger.

“Oh, Solas, _ir abelas_. You just startled me is all,” Lavellan rose to her full height, giving him an ashamed smile, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She mumbled some excuse and pulled Cole along towards Josephine’s office. As the days passed, her extreme demonstrations of fear subsided but she still jumped at every little noise and refused to leave Cole’s side. Her hands were always moving, picking at a loose thread in her tunic, a hangnail, a splinter in the wooden desk.

A week after Therinfal and she still hadn’t come to visit Solas. Arming himself with a particularly interesting book about the Exalted March, he found her sitting in the tavern with Iron Bull and some of the Chargers. Cole, of course, stood over her shoulder, appearing baffled by the interactions occurring in front of him. Solas was pleased to see that Lavellan was laughing, the firelight flickering off her marked face. She reached out for the coins sitting in the middle of the table. Iron Bull slammed his fist upon the table in mock anger. Solas caught her slight flinch before she shouted back at the Qunari, calling him a shitsucking bastard. Krem exploded into laughter at that before dealing the next hand.

Solas settled himself in a corner of the tavern, ignoring the pinecones Sera flicked at his head. The Friend of Red Jenny appeared to be in a particularly peevish mood, probably wanting to join the card game but unwilling to get too near the “elfy” Herald or the “creepy” Cole. When she got bored with Solas’ lack of reaction she huffed furiously and stalked out of The Singing Maiden. Meanwhile, Solas watched the Herald. She chewed on her thumbnail. She nibbled her lower lip. She tapped her foot. For the life of him Solas couldn’t decide if these were indicators of nerves or just her irrepressible energy.

The game didn’t end until the wee hours of the morning. Iron Bull swore he could see the sun beginning to come over the horizon while the Charger they called Dalish called him a filthy horned liar. As Lavellan stood, pocketing her modest winnings of the night, she saw Solas for the first time. A gentle smile blossomed across her face. Solas should have been charmed, but it was the wrong smile. It wasn’t the unrestrained grin he was used to seeing from her.

Cole and Lavellan made their way over to where Solas sat. “ _Hahren,”_ she greeted him politely.

“May I walk you home?” Solas inquired, giving Cole a meaningful look.

Though he hadn’t seen the Herald without Cole shadowing her the whole week, Lavellan agreed readily enough, telling Cole she would find him for breakfast. “Though I guess at this point I won’t be up until lunch!” she amended, a bemused smile on her face as she peered into the cold morning town, her breath forming a cloud in front of her face. Solas helped her into her jacket, took her arm in his, and they began to walk back. He waited for her to peel off, cartwheel through the fresh snow, pinch him just to get a reaction. Instead, she walked, perfectly respectable, her arm looped through his like a lady.

Solas hated it.

When they reached her door, he found himself unable to let go of her. How was he supposed to walk away, knowing how much pain she was in?

“Solas—”

“Herald—”

They both cut off, chuckling uncomfortably. She finally broached the silence first. “That book you’re carrying, I was just wondering what…” she trailed off, giving him a sheepish smile. He withdrew his hold on her, pulling the tome out from underneath his robe.

“I brought it for you, actually. An account of the Exalted March.  A painful topic, I know, but there are a couple of primary documents in mid-age Elvish I thought we could go over, if you’d like.” Solas meant to stop speaking as he handed the book over, but his mouth had other ideas. “Lavellan, are you well?”

“I’m fine, _hahren_ ,” she said brightly, smiling at him. That gentle smile again, that lie plastered on her face.

Solas stared at her sternly, taking her by the shoulders. He nearly laughed at himself for a moment, remembering how loath he had been to even accidentally brush against her mere weeks ago. And now he wanted nothing more than to pull her close, reassure her that it would be okay. For a moment he said nothing, simply gazed into her eyes, willing her to understand. _“Ma harel, da'len,_ ” he whispered.

He saw the quip that tried to pass through her lips choke in her throat instead. Tears welled in her eyes, turning them into emeralds shining in the darkness. “Solas, come off it,” she managed to sound playful, trying to shrug out of his grip. He moved one of his hands to her jaw and forced her, gently, to look at him. He said nothing.

The night was still around them as they locked gazes. Solas had never felt a desire for children in his long lifetime, had spent much of his recent time thinking of Lavellan as an annoying youth specifically meant to punish him. More recently, he’d viewed her less as some sort of juvenile delinquent and more as a bright example of a new generation. But now, in the silence of this predawn, they were equals. They were immortal, locked forever in their mutual stare as Solas tried to communicate what he couldn’t put words to and she fought it, fought it because that meant confronting what had happened, meant dealing with something that had shattered her entire worldview. Solas didn’t know what had occurred between her and the Envy demon, and he didn’t mean to make her tell him, but he did mean to help her confront it.

Then she spoke, and the bubble popped, and they weren’t immortals. He was a Betrayer, and she was a Hero.

“I was so scared, Solas,” she gasped, a quiet sob rising from her chest soft and intimate as a prayer. “I was so scared. I thought he would become me, and then I didn’t know what I would be. He was going to take my voice, and what can you do without your voice? Solas, I—” she cut herself off, burying her face into his chest.

He wrapped his arms around her, feeling her body shake with suppressed sobs.

He didn’t know what to tell her. Probably something about how she could withstand anything, how proper training could easily teach her how to resist demons, how she was the Herald of Andraste, a Dalish hunter, bearer of the Mark.

Instead, words he didn’t mean to say ripped through his mouth. “I’ll never let anyone take you,” he snarled. Within him the Wolf howled. Lavellan was still pressed against his chest and inside of his body the Wolf was straining towards her. _You can’t have her either_ , Solas thought viciously and the Wolf faded. The Herald tilted her head back, surprise etched in the curve of her lips.

“That’s very chivalrous of you,” she teased half-heartedly. Solas quickly stepped away from her, suddenly uncomfortable and unhappy with this situation. She seemed to sense his discomfort because she stepped further away as well, raising the book he had given her and saying, “ _Ma serannas, hahren_ , I’ll take good care of this. Perhaps we can have one last lesson before the Breach is closed.” She backed into her hut, keeping her eyes locked with his. “Good night, _hahren_.” She closed the door. Several long moments passed.

“Good night, _lethallin_.”

Cole materialized out of the dark. “Didn’t think to find a friend here. Couldn’t remember what it’s like to have a friend. What a feeling. Feel better than I have in ages. Never known anyone like her, she’s unlike anyone at all. _This mustn’t end_.”

“You shouldn’t read people’s thoughts, Cole,” Solas said gently, feeling absurdly wonderful.

“Why do you both hurt when you’re happy?” the spirit asked, confusion stamped on his brow.

“Because it won’t last,” the elf replied.

“She thinks it will end with the Breach. _Close the Breach, close him. End the Breach, end our friendship. Fix the world, and he will leave_.”

“Yes, Cole.”

“That’s not right, though, is it?” Cole leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “You’re going to end the world.” Solas glared sharply at the spirit, turned on his heel, and stalked off. Because he was the Betrayer, and she a Hero.

The next day, at lunchtime as promised, the Herald strutted into the mess hall prouder than the wild turkey that had managed to avoid Sera’s dinner table, despite repeated attempts. “Let’s close that bloody hole in the sky, eh?” she asked, slamming her plate down next to Varric. The Inquisition soldiers nearest her roared their approval. Cullen’s face lit up and he quietly slipped out of the tent. Solas, sitting alone in the corner as he was wont to do, lifted his eyes to find Lavellan staring at him. She grinned at him.

It was the right smile, the right light in her eyes, but there was something different. She was changed. She would always be changed. But she was well. He nodded back, but it hurt. He was only a Betrayer, but she was the greatest damn Hero the world had ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma harel - you lie
> 
> I like comments.


	4. How she died

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of everything.

Chapter 4 - How she died          

         

               Music made from reed pipes and leather drums swept through Haven, accompanied by the far more professional sound of Maryden’s stringed instrument. Shouts of “to the Herald! The Herald! The Herald of Andraste!” rang through the ranks of Templar and pilgrim alike. Occasionally he caught the sound of said Herald’s laughter rising above the shouting and cheering and felt a twinge of affection. She’d come to him before joining the celebrations, requesting that he accompany her. He’d promised—lying—to meet up with her later in the evening.

               Instead he was packing up his meager belongings, preparing to slip away in the night. They’d succeeded in closing the Breach. No more rifts would spawn, demons were being contained in the Fade once more, and he could no longer help the fledgling Inquisition. It was time for him to refocus on recovering his orb from Corypheus, who had been suspiciously inactive since the explosion at the Conclave. Solas had suspected that he might appear to hassle the bearer of the Mark, but he hadn’t and Solas figured the ancient magister may have found a new way to achieve his dream of entering the Fade. The Herald, it seemed, was safe.

               It wasn’t often that Solas was wrong, but _Fenedhis_ when he was wrong, boy was he wrong.

               He’d already slipped away from Haven by the time he saw the torchlight of the mage army reflecting off the snow on the mountain slope. He swiftly stashed his belongings in the hollow of an oak tree and shifted into a wolf. He hadn’t taken on this form since waking from his _Uthenera_ , fearing that the Wolf might take over ( _oh, something about this form, this shape, the feeling of loping on four paws and power of strong fangs within a wolf snout. It made the Wolf howl and batter against his control. Made the Wolf stronger and his humanity—so to speak—weaker)_ but he’d never reach Haven in time on only two legs.

               Paws crunched across the firm top layer of snow, the wind rushing through his fur. It had been nearly a millennium since he had held this form and despite the dire situation, he reveled in it. The night had seemed so dark to his elvhen eyes, but as a wolf the moon provided plenty of light for him to make out every leaf on each of the trees that he flashed by. It would be so easy to just give in, to be a wolf, to let the madness take over because it would mean he could retain this form, this wonderful, powerful form—

                He was so distracted by his thoughts that he nearly crashed into the silent column of pilgrims fleeing their burning town. The survivors of Haven, moving through the moonlit night in a tendril of grief away from their holy place. Cassandra at their head with what appeared to be a Tevinter mage supporting Chancellor Rodrick, who weakly pointed out a small crevice in the sheer rock face where they could slip away from danger. Cullen and Blackwall in the back, assisting stragglers, assuring no one separated from the group, snagging exhausted children and sweeping them onto the backs of packhorses and annoyed mules laden with what little was salvaged in the bedlam.

                Below them, Haven was burning.

               Cole moved among the survivors, clearing the rush of fear and sweat and confusion. He twisted around the Iron Bull, whose mercenaries prowled the shadows along with Leliana’s agents, alert for any hint of danger. Sera, with bow aloft and eyes on fire, fury evident in the tautness of her bowstring. Vivienne, too, using her charm and grace to assuage the terror that lingered. She directed them after Josephine and Cassandra, assured them of safety. Varric, stepping quietly, mourning in his eyes. All of them there. All of them, except…

                “Where is Lavellan, Templar?” Solas hissed, approaching Cullen back in his elvhen form. He could hear the ghost of her voice, calling him _hahren_ , asking him to join her in the celebrations that night. And like a fool, he’d assumed all was safe. Without even waiting for Cullen’s response, he pushed past the human, moving instinctively towards the burning town.

                The Commander caught him by his bicep, dragging him backwards towards the fleeing pilgrims. “ _Fenedhis_ , let me go. Release me, human, she’s there-- isn’t she—she—you-- you left her—” Solas yanked himself away from the former Templar.

               “She wanted us to flee, Solas. She asked me to find you, when it was all over, and explain. We couldn’t find you when the fighting started. She…” the Templar trailed off, pain evident in his eyes. Then his eyes froze over and he faced Solas with more steel than before. “She sacrificed herself for us. She triggered the avalanche. The snow buried their entire army. And the Herald along with it.”

               Solas sank to his knees in the snow. _Your purpose is bigger than some little Dalish girl, Fen’harel_ , he reminded himself. _Even if you had saved her now, you weak old man, you’d only have bought her a couple more years. Save these people in her honor, but don’t get distracted. This world—her world—must die._

               Her world must die.

               But she had beaten her world to it and now he was surrounded by her mourning disciples in the freezing cold night. A night that should have been filled with victorious celebrations, instead marred by tragedy and destruction. Solas rose and trudged alongside the Commander silently until they had all slipped through the crack in the canyon wall and reached a shockingly peaceful plateau, sheltered from the blustering weather by the mountains. Cassandra called an end to their march and the struggle to provide adequate shelter for several hundred people began.

                The Seeker, the Commander, the Warden, and the Qunari gathered a small search party each and led them out in the blizzard. Cullen asked Solas to accompany them, but he just turned away silently. The Herald was an impressive woman, but even she couldn’t survive caught between a semi-deity and a force of nature.

 _You only wanted her for the mark,_ he reminded himself. With her mark destroyed, the orb would pose a threat no longer. Corypheus was still a concern, but once he was taken care of, Solas could reclaim the orb and continue with his initial plan. _Everyone in this world will die soon. It is no big loss that she should go sooner._

               The lies were so flimsy that he couldn’t even convince himself. As frustrating as the Herald could be at times, he had begun to feel very real affection for her. It was impossible; when he had first come to this world everyone in it had seemed more like puppets than real people. Yet, somehow, she alone had convinced him that perhaps not everyone in this world was Tranquil.

               He slipped away from the bustle of the makeshift camp and shed his skin, falling onto four paws. There was no chance of her survival, no point holding onto this false hope that would then be crushed, and yet…

               As he moved through the snowy landscape, the Wolf finally regained some control. Solas howled, his grief manifesting in the wolf song. His grief for the Inquisitor, for himself, Haven, the People. His brothers joined him at times, their howls echoing through the night in a surreal but haunting melody. He weaved through the trees, the lonely boughs of oak and maple contrasted by the green spears of pine trees stabbing at the sky.

               And then, when he returned… she was there.


	5. Where they called home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Inquisition settles into Skyhold, Lavellan's absence makes Solas realize something.

Ch 5 – Where they called home

               _Tarasyl'an Te'las._

               The place where the sky is kept.

Skyhold.

               Solas walked the perimeter of the rotunda, skimming his fingertips lightly over the coarse stone walls, the rock of a tough dark variety formed by cooling magma. He could feel the ancient protective magic imbued in the stonework, sensed the wards each time he breathed in. This had been his once, his stronghold, his temple, where he had first worked the spell to create the Veil. Now he was placing its care into the hands of a little Dalish girl and her disciples.

               Strangely, he was at peace with it. He watched through the open door to the main hall as humans, scurrying to make the castle fit for habitation. Humans. Humans in his castle and a Dalish at their head. He shook his head at the thought. He settled down at the sturdy oak desk he had half-dragged, half-magicked into the middle of the room, a leaflet of papers already scattered across the top. He had often come to this tower for solitude and quiet scholarship in the later days of Arlathan, when he could sense the end was near. The library above him held many memories, both fond and bitter. He’d hoped to take up residence there, but the Tevinter peacock had already settled into an alcove up above. Besides that, the mage who studied creatures and several of the Inquisition’s bureaucrats were already milling in between the shelves, mostly barren now but already being stocked with gifts from pilgrims and noble allies. And the spymaster, her agents, and her ravens were stationed a level above that in the rookery. All in all, the tower was much more crowded than he would have liked.

               But his atrium was mostly quiet, secluded, and warm. There was a small room off the side where he had already fashioned a bedroom of sorts. This simply entailed a somewhat mildewed chaise lounge that would suit as a bed until proper furnishings could be acquired and a stack of neatly folded clothes in the corner. The Inquisitor (Herald, Inquisitor, Mistress Lavellan, what an impressive bunch of titles for such a little Dalish girl) had been given his old quarters, the most spacious room with a breathtaking view. He found that he didn’t mind being downgraded. It seemed that the days when he had inhabited those lavish rooms had been his most lonely.

               His castle had certainly suffered a bit over the years. The protection magic had kept away any darkspawn or would-be conquerors (some had managed to settle for short periods of time, but no one stayed for long), but had done almost nothing against a keep’s natural enemy: time.

               In many places the thick stone walls were crumbling (Solas could feel the frayed edges of his protective wards where this had happened and spent several of his first days there going around and sealing these breaches). A myriad of creatures had made these empty halls their homes. Volunteers cleared bats, rats, cats from the attics, the cellars, the vacant rooms. There was a marvelous war between the handful of surviving children from Haven and a band of raccoons who had set up in the long abandoned forge. The children proved victorious and smoke currently belched from the squat building as the reconstruction demanded more and more metal supports.

               The open courtyard, once the wild brambles and weeds had been cleared, was swampy. There was a dwarf out there now, leading a drainage effort. The Ambassador had an entire squadron of women simply set on the task of clearing away all the cobwebs around the keep. What had once been a dignified meeting hall was quickly being established as a tavern. Informally at first, but now there was a bar with a dwarven bartender and long wooden tables and hearty glasses of ale perfect to ease the tedium of long days setting the castle right. The singer Maryden strummed her lute there now, Sera had claimed a small cubby on the second floor and protected it with the hissing fierceness of an alleycat, and Cole lurked directly above her (much to the elf’s dismay), drifting down to ease any pains he sensed.

               As for the little Dalish girl herself… the newly dubbed Inquisitor spent her days exploring the castle. The keep was immense and this was a task not easily accomplished, as Solas knew better than anyone else. Lavellan uncovered entire new areas of the keep every day. Most recently she was leading the effort to make the dungeons suitable. Many of the cells were unusable as their walls had collapsed inwards, and the platform supporting the exterior cells had completely collapsed, leaving a dangerous and most certainly lethal plummet down towards the river below.  Solas found the fact that Lavellan recognized the need for a dungeon and her eagerness to assist in their restorations disconcerting.

               He hadn’t spoken to her since their travels to Skyhold. When The Commander had appeared that night with the nearly frozen Herald wrapped securely in his arms, Solas had been disbelieving. He’d gone limp in shock, backpedaling into the shadows, wondering if now was the time he really should run. But he couldn’t abandon them now, not when Corypheus was his fault and when the Herald and Corypheus’ fascination with her was the most likely way to recover his orb.

               So after the humans had made their holy reverence for this little Dalish girl clear, he had pulled her aside and explained best he could. He allowed her to know bits and pieces of the truth and cringed internally at all that he was hiding from her. The Herald was shockingly unfazed by what had happened. She was solemn during their conversation, mourning the loss of Haven and some of her people, nursing her own physical wounds, and seriously considering his words and their implications. But she displayed no panic, no fear, no hopelessness. Her eyes contained their usual energetic spark but now they also carried a dark, dangerous thirst. For justice.

               Though if he was being honest, it wasn’t justice she sought, but vengeance.

               He had told her to lead them and lead them she had, with him by her side. But no longer was he the teacher and she student. No longer was he the long-suffering elder and she the over eager, obnoxious student. She was his leader and he was a humble advisor, offering suggestions but ultimately deferring to her decisions. She used their travels to continue to grill him about elvhen history and his experiences in the Fade, but no longer did her questions bubble over with enthusiastic curiosity. They were calculated and intense. Everything he told her was filed away in her brain, not just for the pleasure of knowledge, but for potential use later. Her new intensity both frightened him and stirred something within him.

               He had always considered the Herald and himself opposites. His patient, scholarly demeanor hid the madness within while she was a physical torrent concealing a calm and steady mind. But now, in both of them, the façade and the truth was beginning to mingle. He caught himself showing more emotion, finally allowing himself to feel the sharp bite of jealousy or the slow burn of anger when he considered the Dalish religion. He laughed less, but when he did it was real, instead of the polite chuckle had cultivated. Meanwhile she was steadier, no longer peeling off from the group to do cartwheels in the snow or swing from the branches of a tree as she once had. She still had incurable energy, scouting miles ahead and then returning, moving through the people late into the night to check on broken arms and broken hearts, then up again before anyone to hunt rabbit and venison for their stores.

               When they had crested that ridge and beheld Skyhold, she had glanced at him with the eyes she used to have. Filled with childish delight, she’d looked back to the castle and moved forwards towards it almost in a trance. He watched her go, not knowing that was the last time he would speak to her for weeks. They’d been at Skyhold for over half a month and she hadn’t come to him once. He hadn’t sought her out either, afraid as he was of her new intimidating eyes and vigilant mind. She was going to see through him like this, her focus as sharp as Cassandra’s blade. She’d press him for information, looking for Corypheus’ weakness, and he’d slip up and she’d know.

               If she ever found out who he was, would she turn him aside? Send him away from her new clan, face him away like the Dalish did to the statuettes of the Dread Wolf so that he couldn’t see their actions?

               That thought stung more than it should have.

               So he kept himself busy, researching the Venatori and red lyrium and Tevinter customs and Dalish migration patterns and anything even remotely related to their current predicament. He aided in other places, lending his healing magic to the surgeons some days, carrying messages when needed throughout the castle, even rolling up his sleeves one day to help the soldiers rebuild a crumbling stone wall. He ended each day too exhausted to sleep, flopping down on his chaise lounge and eagerly welcoming his visit to the Fade.

               In the Fade, however, his work continued. He traveled far and wide, asking any spirit willing to talk to him about what lingering effects the Breach created, any news about a talking darkspawn named Corypheus, potential locations of the Hero of Ferelden. He woke each morning feeling as tired as he did when he went to sleep the night before. He didn’t allow himself a moment’s respite however. Lavellan was working tirelessly—she was out now to the Hinterlands with Cassandra, Blackwall, and Dorian to reaffirm the established stability in the region—and so would he.

               Each time he saw her stride purposefully through the main hall, returning from travels to the Hinterlands or the Storm Coast or simply ending a day of exploring and restoring the keep, he yearned desperately for her to come speak to him. This strength of his desire to talk to her startled him. The Wolf howled in his chest long and low the day he realized his feelings for her might be more than strictly innocent. In the end, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t have anything with her. He was planning on destroying her world and killing every living thing within it, herself included.

               To allow himself any relationship with her, however desirable, would be unwise and unkind. He would need to douse these feelings, quickly and efficiently.  With this decided, when she finally came to speak to him, he decided to simply congratulate her on her hard work and continue to offer her his aid.

               Instead, he found himself asking if she wanted to speak somewhere more private.

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism is welcome.  
> Love me some comments.


End file.
